


In the Shelter of Each Other

by Miladygrey



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, my creys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miladygrey/pseuds/Miladygrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Look, Mother. Family.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Shelter of Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Act II, following the quest "All That Remains". If you've done that quest, you know the character who died.
> 
> While this fic is gen, there's F!Hawke/Merrill if you squint.
> 
> Title is from the Jars of Clay song "Shelter".

You're staring into the embers of the fire when Merrill asks quietly "D'you want to learn a prayer to Falon'Din and Sylaise, so they can keep watch on your mother?"

She might as well be speaking pure Dalish, and you just blink at her.

Which, of course, she misinterprets. "Or have her in the Chantry with the Maker and Andraste, as you like. I'm sure Falon'Din and Andraste get on. Although I've never understood why you humans burn instead of bury--not that there's many places in Kirkwall to bury someone--oh, Dread Wolf stop me babbling please--"

"No, dear heart, no, you've said nothing wrong." You relax into your default position of late, leaning against her, your head on her shoulder. For all her twig-thinness, she's strong enough to support you, and you are so grateful for that. "I know who Falon'Din is, kind of, but I've never heard of Sylaise."

"She's Andruil's sister, the Hearthkeeper. She keeps the fires lit and ready for the hunters coming in--she's the light of home, the one that guides you back in the dark. Your mother always struck me as one of hers."

You start crying again (of course) but they're the better kind of tears. Merrill kisses them away.

 

"What do you mean, she can't come?"

The Templar's drone doesn't alter in the slightest. "Knight-Commander Meredith has declared that all mages shall remain confined to the Gallows until the most recently escaped apostates have been recaptured. No exceptions."

"But it's our mother's funeral!"

"By order of Knight-Commander Meredith--"

This is the last flaming straw, and you start yelling, your voice reverberating around the tiny office and out into the corridor. "This is my mother! _Our_ mother! She's dead at the hands of a blood mage--one _I_ killed, thanks very much--and Bethany can't even come across the bay to the Chantry to say goodbye? What kind of unfeeling bastard _are_ you?" Merrill's voice is rising anxiously outside, as is Fenris's raspy murmur, and you actually want them to come blasting in. An arcane bolt or a nice lyrium-infused strike is looking better and better.

But it's Sebastian who storms in, all enameled white armor and eyes aflame with righteousness. He touches your shoulder briefly in passing, but his focus is on the gaping Templar.

"And you call yourself a servant of the Maker." Disdain positively drips from his voice. "Does not the Chant of Light say 'Bare is the back and heavy is the load without brother beside'? Are we not meant to support our brothers and sisters in their need and grief--especially Hawke, who has done so much for this city?" He gestures toward you, and you try to look angry, sad, and aggrieved at the same time. "This is her family. It is only right, only just. And if you see fit to deny comfort to not one, but two grieving souls--" A dramatic pause, then he shakes his head slowly, portentously. "--then Grand Cleric Elthina will hear about this moral lapse. In. Great. Detail."

A day's writ of freedom is scribbled, sealed and pressed into your hand in no time flat, the Templar unable to meet Sebastian's fierce blue gaze. He gives the man the tiniest of nods before walking out at your side. Fenris and Merrill look rather impressed.

"Sebastian--thank you--"

His smile is sad. "It's nothing, Hawke. No one should ever have to grieve alone."

You kiss his cheek for that, and hear Merrill invite him for dinner as you stride down the corridor. For the first time since that night, you feel something that resembles happiness.

 

It makes no sense, as Merrill has pointed out several times, that the bodies of the dead should be dressed in their finery before being burned, but it's tradition nevertheless. It's also tradition that the deceased's family prepare the body, and that is what you have been doing for three teeth-gritting hours. At least Mother is wearing one of her favorite dresses now, and not those ghastly wedding clothes. But the horrible, jagged cuts on her neck remain, and there's not a collar high enough or a necklace ornate enough to hide them.

_I'm sorry, Mother,_ you tell her, stepping out into the sunny courtyard for a breath of air (for the tenth time). _I'm trying, I swear I am..._

When you come back inside, Isabela is there, feeding something dubious to the dog. You manage a weak smile and a wave on your way back up to Mother's room. Bodahn will feed her if she's hungry, and if she's bored, either Varric will play Diamondback with her or Aveline will trade barbs. You've got to finish this.

There's something wrapped around Mother's neck. Or rather, arranged. It's a scarf, carefully folded and pleated to hide the mangled marks on her neck. It reminds you of how Bethany used to wear her red-and-blue scarf, a cheerful splash of color. This isn't yours, though. It's much too fine, violet silk with gold threads glittering throughout, and little gold flowers at each corner. It smells faintly of Andraste's Grace...and beer?...

"It's Orlesian silk." Isabela's crept up behind you again--honestly, someone wearing that much jewelry really should make a sound when she walks. "I found it in Nevarra, but the merchant assured me it was made in Val Royeaux. I played strip poker with him for it. I bet to this day, he still thinks he won." She reaches around to smooth a tiny crease away, her fingers dark against the shining material. "Leandra always looked so good in violet."

She did. She does. She looks...like Mother again, really. Less like a victim of a depraved madman. "You shouldn't give up your favorite scarf for this, 'Bela."

"I never said it was my favorite." Her voice is as careless as ever. "It's pretty, but I can always find pretty. Leandra...Leandra needs it more right now."

You hug her, impulsively, and are gratified when she doesn't laugh or attempt to grope you, just hugs back.

 

"Hey, Hawke."

Varric's in the entryway, wiping mud off his boots and dodging the dog's efforts to apply even more mud. You hurry over to haul him back. "Settle, Lad. Just because he forgot to bring leftover stew is no excuse to kill him...Maker's breath, Varric, it's raining buckets. You didn't have to come over."

"It was on my way."

"From the Hanged Man?"

"I take back routes." He peers around you. "Awful quiet for the night before a funeral. Shouldn't there be a wake going on?"

"I didn't feel like it." Which is the truth. "Merrill took Orana to the alienage for the night--"

"For Andraste's sake, why?"

Because if Orana had tried to be helpful one more time, you would have started screaming. "Elf things, I suppose. I made Merrill promise not to abandon her in favor of the mirror, though. Bodahn and Sandal have gone to bed, and I guess everyone else is around somewhere..."

"Sunshine here yet?"

"The pass is for tomorrow only, and as much fun as it would be to send Sebastian in again, it wouldn't be right."

"No use asking the choirboy to bend the rules more than once." Varric grins crookedly, and swings a small sack off his shoulder. "I won't bother you for long, Hawke. Just wanted to pass these on."

The sack isn't too heavy--it is slightly damp--and rustles with paper. "Letters?"

"Among other things."

A cascade of small items pour out when you tip it, cushioned by sheets and scraps of paper. Dozens of amulets and charms, Maker beads and Andraste's symbols, a few Flames done in bronze and redwood and one in luminous stained glass. Bundles of Andraste's Grace, dried and still fragrant. A few elven amulets, most of them bearing the stylized fire of Sylaise. And the letters, some in graceful handwriting, some laboriously printed.

_Leandra gave me coin when I had nothing, and told me things would get better..._

_Lady Hawke gave so much of her time and care to the poor of Kirkwall..._

_Few would have given a thought to the plight of a widowed elf, but I have a good job now thanks to the Lady Leandra..._

_So often we in Lowtown must pray for the Maker's mercy, and He sent us Leandra. My daughter's name will be Leana..._

_The Book of Solaces will be Chanted for your mother. You have my deepest sympathy._ That one is signed with Grand Cleric Elthina's seal.

"Varric? Where did you get all these?" You barely recognize your own voice.

"People have been giving them to me. Passing them on. They're hesitant to approach you, the nobly grieving hero--" His customary sarcasm is still there. "--but me, your storyteller, they can talk to. They want you to know how much they appreciate everything you do, and how much you're loved--you and your mother. You're both heroes, you know."

You've never thought of it that way, and the novelty of the idea keeps you from bursting into tears yet again. "Will you tell stories about her?"

"Ballads, Hawke. Ballads to rival Bianca's song."

 

You're sorting through the last of the things, and the Chantry chimes have just sung for midnight, when you hear a door open. The fact that you _heard_ it open implies that someone wanted you to, and combined with the soft clatter-tap of a sword's blade hitting the floor--"Come in, Fenris."

"For someone who is so good at picking locks, you show remarkable carelessness with your own." The elf is a faintly glimmering ghost, the lyrium in his skin still holding a bit of its own light. "Are you well?"

"About as much so as can be expected."

"What are these?"

You explain, and he sits down cross-legged on the floor with you to comb through the heap of little mementoes. "What will you do with them all?"

"Keep a few. Send most of the rest into the flames with Mother. Everything goes back to the Maker in the end, so people won't be offended. I think I'll keep the letters, for a while. Just to remind me." Something that's neither sword nor lyrium catches the light. "What have you got?"

He sets down two wine glasses and a dusty, dark bottle. "Petrius Navirii. Bottled sometime in the last Age, if I'm making out that label correctly. I stopped in the kitchen for the glasses first."

You're flattered. Drinking the wine is Fenris' own personal 'up yours' to Danarius, wherever he might be, and his offering to share that small joy is a rare thing. "I hear it's a fine vintage."

"It is at that." He uncorks it somehow--you didn't see a corkscrew--and pours it carefully into the glasses, not spilling a drop. You're about to take a sip when he lifts his glass and says "To your mother."

The only reason you don't do a spit-take is that it would be a crying shame to waste this wine, and you still almost drop the glass. He blinks at you. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You--I'm not trying to be rude, Fenris, but you barely knew my mother."

"I knew her better than I remember my own. I know that she welcomed me in when I did come, and never once said a word about slaves, or my wearing the sword in the house. Nor did she throw me out when I spoke against mages, and she would have had every right to do so." He scrubs a hand through his ice-white hair, struggling for words he rarely needs. "I...have so little to remember, Hawke. I am trying to rebuild as best I can, and your mother helped me do that, just as you do. I honor her for that." He clinks his glass to yours. "Let this memory lighten grief."

It does, if just a little. You sip the rich wine and try to blink away the tears. "I could tell you about her. If you like."

"Please."

There's another bottle of wine in his bag when the first is gone, and tales of Mother outlast them both.

 

You haven't let go of Bethany since she appeared at the door this morning, two Templars as escort. One of them was Keran, and you shook his hand and thanked him. "You're ready for this, Beth?"

"Not really. As much so as I'll ever be." She's not allowed to wear anything other than her Circle robes--another one of Meredith's rules, lest anyone mistake her for a regular person--but you gave her Mother's favorite bracelets, and they chime on her wrists. She's also wearing one of the Flames you were given, warm bronze against dark-blue fabric. You're wearing the glass one, and one of the Sylaise amulets that Merrill assured you was appropriate for the occasion. "Mother looks beautiful."

"I had help. Do you need anything? Sebastian is already at the Chantry, and everyone else will be there too. The wagon and the...Mother should be hitched and ready." You dread walking through the streets of Kirkwall, a parade for all eyes. Even knowing, through Varric, that most of them are on your side doesn't lessen the feeling.

"No. Let's just do this and get it over with." She hugs you again, forehead-to-forehead. "Chin up, sister. Remember, Father always said that Hawkes have pride."

"Damn straight." You lift your chin as ordered, and step out into--

\--into an honor guard. An honor Guard, even, you recognize Brennan and Donnic. And Aveline, her hair gleaming bright in the sunshine, stepping through the file and giving you a nod of respect. "We're here, Hawke."

"So I see." You're rather poleaxed. "Why?"

"An escort." She says it like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You're a hero in this city, and the Guard knows it. Especially its Captain, who wouldn't be here today without you and Leandra." She reaches over to give Bethany a quick hug, then stands back at attention, raising her voice for the benefit of listeners. "With permission, serah, we will escort you and your family to the Chantry."

"All two of us?" Something in Aveline always brings out your tendency towards sarcasm.

"You've more than that, Hawke." She nods out to the cluster of people around the wagon. Varric, Isabela, Merrill and Fenris are waiting there, eyes turning to you. They're all in black--even Merrill has a black cloak thrown over her usual white--and Isabela is wearing an actual skirt. Everyone has flowers (no lilies, thank Andraste), and Fenris isn't even visibly armed.

You only realize how hard you're clutching Bethany's arm when she gently pries your fingers open. "Come on, Cassidy. Let's go be with our family."

The Guard forms into ranks on either side as the wagon starts moving. Bethany's at one hand and Merrill's at the other, and Varric is calmly glaring down a Carta thug trying to get in close.

_Look, Mother. Family._ You think she'd approve.

 

Grand Cleric Elthina has started speaking, the usual words of comfort from Solaces and Dawn, when something catches your eye. A tall figure slipping into the back of the Chantry, fitting himself into a corner away from the rest of the crowd (half of Kirkwall's come, it seems).

It can't be Anders. You'd thought of asking him, but ever since the incident with Ella and Justice/Vengeance, the man staunchly refuses to come anywhere near the Chantry, insisting that the Templars will spring on him if he sets foot in the place. He'll barely even cross the courtyard, and when he does, it's to paper the Chanter's Board with his manifesto. Besides, this man is wearing plain work clothes, not a raven feather to be seen, there's no sign of a staff anywhere on his person...

He turns his head, and there are golden eyes and the short queue of matching gold hair and merciful _Maker_ he actually came.

There are visible tear tracks on his face. You remember, with a quick pang, evenings at home before he became so driven and angry, Mother telling stories of Father's exploits and Bethany's early mishaps with her powers. Anders would listen avidly, occasionally chiming in with a few scraps of memory from his long-ago and truncated childhood in the Anderfels.

No one else has noticed him --scratch that, Aveline has, and her eyes are narrowed in his direction. You shake your head just slightly, and she shrugs one shoulder. She doesn't really trust him, but since you've accepted him, she does too.

Anders apparently saw the whole wordless exchange, since his lips are twitching upwards despite the whole flaming situation. He touches a hand to his heart and bows his head, silent thanks, before looking back up at the lectern and the Grand Cleric with every appearance of piety.

And you stand there, with your family all around you, and you are not alone.


End file.
